Punctured lung, the sick scream what fun.
What breeds in society is sadness and the gun!
Warped perspective of reality as a whole.
Some even make its exportation their goal.
But why corrupt what has not been tainted?
Because you think you are sainted.
Melodrama fused with a crash.
With your type there is no such thing as rash.
Instead a victim is simply a source.
You sick shallow entity should suffer recourse.
Battered shell that just won’t hold.
Too focused and busy with digging hearts ’til they’re cold.
Sweet sincere horror has become fuel for mass.
If only they could all be struck down in a flash.
Sadly as yet they continue to multiply.
Best hope is that some day they’ll wither and fry.
Molded by distress, despair and division.
Truth be told they were once but an incision.
Stuffed into the heart of one single soul.
Now they are hard and numerous as coal.
Shattered remnant once with a smile.
What stands before us now is vicious like a crocodile.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 